The Vintage Caper (9 page)

Sam looked at the shoes. It was his turn to raise his eyebrows. “I understand perfectly,” he said. He offered Sophie his arm. “Let’s go. This is Reboul’s lucky night.”

Fourteen

The iron gates swung open to let the taxi through. Standing some fifty meters inside the gates, at the very edge of the driveway, was a larger-than-life-size statue of a woman clad in the flowing robes of ancient Greece. Her blind marble gaze was fixed on the huge building in the distance, her arms outstretched as if trying to touch it.

The driver nodded toward her as they passed. “Empress Eugénie,” he said.
“La pauvre
. This is about as close as she ever got to her palace.”

Waiting on the front steps as the taxi pulled up was a young man in a dark suit, his head respectfully tilted in welcome. He guided them through the entrance and along a gleaming avenue of honey-colored herringbone parquet that led to a pair of tall double doors. These he threw open with a flourish before melting away, leaving Sophie and Sam almost blinded by the torrent of evening sunlight that streamed through a row of floor-to-ceiling windows. Framed by one of these windows was the silhouette of Reboul, his back to the room and a cell phone to his ear.

Sophie nudged Sam. “He doesn’t know we’re here.”

“Sure he does,” said Sam. “He’s just letting us know how busy he is. They do it all the time in L.A.” He turned, and closed the double doors behind him with a firm thump. The sound seemed to be enough to attract the silhouette’s attention, and Reboul, still heavily backlit, put away his phone and came across to greet them.

He was short, slim, and immaculate. He had thick white hair, beautifully cut
en brosse
, and wore a shirt of the palest blue, a tie that Sam, a student of these arcane signals, recognized as the official neckwear of the Guards Club in London, and a dark-blue silk suit. His face was the color of oiled teak, and his bright brown eyes became even brighter at the sight of Sophie.

“Bienvenue, madame,”
he said, bending over to kiss her hand and take in her
décolleté
before turning to Sam.
“Et vous êtes Monsieur …”

“Levitt. Sam Levitt. Good to meet you. Thanks a lot for seeing us.” He shook Reboul’s hand and gave him one of his business cards.

“Ah,” said Reboul. “You would prefer that we speak English.”

“That’s kind of you,” said Sam. “My French is not as good as it should be.”

Reboul shrugged. “No problem. Today, everyone in business must know English. All my employees speak it. Soon, I suppose, we’ll have to learn Chinese.” He looked down at Sam’s card, and cocked a bushy white eyebrow. “A château in Los Angeles? How chic.”

“A modest place,” said Sam with a smile. “But it’s home.”

Reboul extended a hand toward the row of windows. “Come. Let me show you my sunset. I’m told it’s the best in Marseille.”

His
sunset, thought Sam. It was wonderful how billionaires had a habit of appropriating the marvels of nature as their personal property. But he had to admit that it was an exceptional sight. The sky was on fire—a great crimson gash, fading at the edges to tones of pink and lavender, the light making a path of rippled gold on the surface of the sea. Reboul nodded at the view, as if in confirmation that it was up to the normal high standard that he expected.

A few kilometers from the shore, there was a shadowy huddle of small islands. Sophie pointed to the nearest of them. “That’s the Château d’If, isn’t it?”

“Quite right, my dear. You obviously haven’t forgotten your Alexandre Dumas. This is where the Count of Monte-Cristo was imprisoned. Many visitors think he really existed, you know.” He chuckled. “Such is the power of a good book.” Turning away from the window, he took Sophie’s arm. “Which reminds me of the reason for your visit. Let’s sit down, and you can tell me about it.”

Reboul showed them to a group of nineteenth-century chairs and sofas arranged around a low table that dripped with ormolu. Before sitting down himself, he took out his cell phone and pressed a button. The young man in a dark suit, who must have been lurking outside, appeared with a tray that he set down on the table. He took a bottle of champagne from its ice bucket and presented it for Reboul’s approval before opening it. The cork came out with a gentle sigh. The young man poured, served, and disappeared.

“I hope you like Krug,” said Reboul. He settled back in his chair and crossed his legs, exposing black crocodile loafers and a pair of trim, deeply tanned bare ankles. “You must forgive the lack of socks,” he said, “but I detest them. I never wear them at home.” He raised his glass to Sophie and smiled. “To literature.”

When Sam and Sophie were planning their pitch, they had agreed that Sophie’s Bordeaux background made her the natural choice for the part of editorial director, in charge of selecting the cellars to be included in the book. With a sip of champagne to moisten a suddenly dry throat, she started by giving Reboul a general overview of the project, sprinkling her explanation with names of the eminent professional cellars under consideration—the grand restaurants and hotels of the world, and, of course, the Elysée Palace. Reboul listened with polite attention, his eye occasionally wandering from Sophie’s face to a discreet appreciation of her legs.

As she moved on to what she called the major part of the book—the world’s finest private cellars—Reboul’s interest increased. He asked who else besides himself would be approached. It was a question that Sophie had anticipated, and without hesitation she reeled off the names of a handful of English aristocrats, some well-known American industrialists, Hong Kong’s richest man, a reclusive Scottish widow who lived in a castle on thirty thousand acres of the Highlands, and two or three of the better-known families in Bordeaux and Burgundy.

Sophie was warming to her task, and Reboul was clearly warming to Sophie as she leaned toward him to emphasize the point she was about to make. Candidates for the book, she said, had to satisfy three requirements. First, they had to be people with sufficient taste and money to have put together a truly remarkable collection of wines. Second, they had to be interesting for reasons other than their love of wine—people who had, in Sophie’s words, a life beyond the cellar. And third, the cellars themselves had to be, in one way or another, out of the ordinary. She cited two examples of what she meant: the English earl who kept his wines in a towering Victorian folly, complete with humidity-controlled elevator, at the end of his garden; and the American who had put aside an entire floor of his Park Avenue triplex for his collection. Without having seen the cellars of the Palais du Pharo, she said, she couldn’t imagine that they were anything short of extraordinary.

Reboul nodded. “Indeed they are. And quite large. In fact, Monsieur Vial, my cellar master, keeps a small bicycle down there to get from one end to the other.” He raised a hand, and the young man materialized to refill their glasses. “It is an interesting project, and most charmingly explained.” He inclined his head toward Sophie. “But tell me a little about the—how can I put it?—the nuts and bolts. How does one prepare such a book?”

It was Sam’s turn. The very best people would be commissioned, he assured Reboul. The text would be assigned to an internationally respected wine writer—Hugh Johnson came to mind, obviously—perhaps with a foreword by Robert Parker; the photographs were to be taken by Halliwell or Duchamp, both of whom were generally regarded as masters. The overall appearance of the book would be supervised by Ettore Pozzuolo, a design genius and publishing legend. In other words, no expense would be spared. This was going to be nothing short of a bible for wine lovers. Here, Sam corrected himself. It would be
the
bible for wine lovers, and there were millions of these throughout the world. Naturally, said Sam, Reboul would be given full approval of the text and photographs used, with Madame Costes acting as the liaison between writer, photographer, and the Palais du Pharo. She would at all times be available for consultation.

Reboul pulled at the lobe of one leathery ear as he thought. He was aware that he was being flattered, but that never worried him. It was, he thought, not a bad idea, not bad at all. It was the kind of book that he himself would find interesting. And as long as his right of content approval was written into an agreement, there could be no embarrassing surprises when the book was published. It would be yet another testament to his success—the tycoon with a palate of gold. And not least of the attractions was the prospect of many cozy editorial meetings with the enchanting Madame Costes, who was looking at him so hopefully.

He made up his mind. “Very well,” he said. “I agree. Not for personal publicity, of course, but because I am always looking for opportunities to beat the drum for France and everything French. It’s a hobby of mine. I suppose I’m an old-fashioned patriot.” He paused to let this noble sentiment sink in before continuing. “Now then. As my secretary told you, I leave early tomorrow morning for a few days in Corsica. But you have no need of me at this stage. The man you should see is Monsieur Vial. He has been in charge of my cellar for almost thirty years. There are several thousand bottles, and I sometimes think he knows each one of them personally. There is nobody better to give you the guided tour.” Reboul nodded, and said again, “Yes, Vial is the man you must see.”

As he was speaking, Sophie’s expression had turned from hope to delight. She leaned forward to put her hand on Reboul’s arm. “Thank you,” she said. “You won’t regret it, I promise you.”

Reboul patted her hand. “I’m sure I won’t, my dear.” He looked across at the ever-hovering young man. “Dominique will make the arrangements for you to meet Vial tomorrow. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment. Dominique will take you back to your hotel.”

On their way out, they almost bumped into Reboul’s next appointment, a tall, sleek girl wearing large, dark sunglasses—in case the sun should magically reappear for an encore—and leaving in her wake a drift of scent.

“Shalimar,” said Sophie with a disapproving sniff, “and far too much of it.”

Standing on the steps outside the entrance waiting for the car, Sam put his arm around Sophie’s shoulder and squeezed. “You were sensational,” he said. “I thought for a moment you were going to sit on his lap.”

Sophie laughed. “I think he thought so too. He’s quite the ladies’ man.” She pursed her lips. “Although perhaps a little short.”

“Not a problem, believe me. If he stood on his wallet he’d be taller than both of us put together.”

A long, gleaming black Peugeot pulled up in front of the steps, and Dominique leaped out to open the rear doors.

“Just down the road, please,” said Sam. “The Sofitel.”

As they reached the end of the drive, the car stopped next to the statue of Empress Eugénie. Dominique lowered his window, stretched out a hand, and pressed a button that was concealed in a fold of Eugénie’s marble robes. The electric gates swung open. With a murmured
“Merci, madame,”
Dominique turned onto the boulevard, and, minutes later, they were back at the hotel.

“I don’t know about you,” said Sam to Sophie, as the car pulled away, “but I think we’ve earned another drink. I’ll race you to the bar.”

As they crossed the lobby, a large, disheveled figure hurried over to intercept them, his eyebrows raised, his shoulders hunched, his hands spread wide. A human semaphore, fresh from the Salon d’Erotisme.

“Alors? Alors?
How did it go?”

Sam gave two thumbs up. “Sophie was fantastic. We’ve got a date to visit the cellar tomorrow morning. How about you? Did you have an erotic afternoon?”

The big man grinned. “You would be amazed. Many novelties—you should see what they do with latex nowadays. For instance—”

“Philippe! Enough.” Sophie was shaking her head all the way to the bar.

Over drinks, they brought Philippe up to date. It had been a promising start, they all agreed, but tomorrow would be key, and there was a lot of ground to cover. From Reboul’s description, his cellar was gigantic, a bicycle ride from one end to the other. Not only that. They would be looking for a mere five hundred bottles among thousands. It was going to be a long day.

Sam finished his drink and stood up. “I think I’d better go and make a few calls. The folks in L.A. will be wanting to know what’s going on, and it’s best to get them before lunch. But I’m sure you two have a lot of family gossip to catch up on.”

Philippe looked disappointed. “Don’t you want to hear about the Salon d’Erotisme?”

“With a passion,” said Sam. “But not tonight.”

It was eleven a.m. in Los Angeles, and Elena Morales was beginning to wonder if she might find any entries in the Yellow Pages under “Human Disposal.” Danny Roth’s calls—whether snide, abusive, or threatening—were getting her down to the extent that she was having frequent daydreams about arranging for his extermination. Added to that was her irritation at Sam’s prolonged silence and the frustration of not knowing what, if any, progress was being made in France. And so when her secretary announced that Mr. Levitt was on the line, she was ready to bite his head off.

“Yes, Sam. What is it?” The tone of her voice was several degrees below freezing.